Theo's eyelids were growing heavy. The restless night was catching up with him. In fact, he hadn't enjoyed a decent night's sleep since that bullet grazed his head. Weird, but the shooting was beginning to feel like a million years ago. The stitches, however, were a clear reminder of just how recent his latest brush with death had been. He no longer had to wear the bandage, and the scar added to his menacing persona.

He rolled onto his side, but something was poking him in the ribs. Shifting onto his back didn't help. That annoying lump in his bunk was unavoidable. He reached beneath the mattress and found the culprit. It was a tube. Theo read the label. It was some kind of age-spot bleacher.

"No way," Theo said, his words coming like a reflex.

Theo amazed even himself with the knowledge he'd gained in prison, and some things he would never forget, even if he was among the lucky ones who'd managed to keep his pants on. Age-spot bleachers packed a double whammy: an effective lubricant with the added benefit of making the unsexy brown skin that sprouted anal hairs more pink and attractive.

Isaac Reems – badass leader of the Grove Lords – had hisself a girlfriend?

Theo put the tube back under the mattress, still not believing it. No way. Charger had to be getting it from somebody else, not Isaac.

There was just no way.

Jack was in trial all day. The state attorney was determined to make an example out of his client, a high-school valedictorian who should have gone on to MIT, except that he'd already made a cool million selling nonexistent jewelry and sports cars via Internet auctions – always under the stolen identity of other sellers, of course. Jack wasn't optimistic. Predicting jury verdicts was always dicey, but it appeared that this bunch had already left-clicked on Go_Directly_To_ Jail.com.

Trial adjourned at 5:00 p.m., and Uncle Cy was waiting for him in the hallway outside the courtroom. Jack wasn't expecting him.

"What's up, old man?"

Cy kept pace as they walked toward the elevators. "You and me are going to Overtown."

"For what?" said Jack, as he hit the down button.

The elevator doors opened, and they went inside. "For Theo," he said.

Ten minutes later they were in Jack's car, cruising past the Miami Arena, the original home of the Miami Heat and one of the more expensive failed attempts to revive Overtown. In theory, fans would shop and dine in the neighborhood before and after events. In reality, they came and left as quickly as possible. No offense to Uncle Cy, but with Theo having dodged a bullet to the head just last weekend, Jack was feeling a similar sense of urgency.

"Turn right here," said Cy.

It was the same street as the shooting. "You kidding me?"

"You think I'd kid about something like this?"

They parked at a metered space at the end of the street, directly in front of a yellow, three-story apartment building called The Landing. The facade was covered with gang graffiti and murals, though some of the markings had been painted over in a different shade of yellow. Security bars covered the first-floor windows.

The meter was broken. Jack put his coins away said a silent good-bye to his car, just in case, and followed Cy into the building. There was a small vestibule and a sign on the elevator that said out of order. The sign looked as though it had been there since Uncle Cy was Theo's age. Another door led to the stairwell. It was locked. The old man checked the numbers on the mailboxes – there were only numbers, no names – and rang apartment number twenty-two. No one answered. He rang again, and the intercom crackled. It sounded like a woman's voice, but the tinny speaker made it unintelligible. Uncle Cy went to the security door and shouted, "Flo! It's me, Cyrus!"

A buzzer sounded, the lock disengaged, and Uncle Cy opened the door. Jack followed him upstairs to the second floor. The corridor was dimly lit; about half the bulbs were burned out. A brown water stain on the ceiling marked the halfway point of their journey, and the indoor-outdoor carpet smelled of mildew. They stopped at apartment 22. The door opened a crack, and a woman peered out at them over the chain. Jack met her stare. She had a full face, and her hair was mostly gray. Probably not as old as Uncle Cy, but she could have just looked young for her age.

"Who's he?" she said.

"He's cool. Theo's best friend. His name's Jack."

"Looks like the FBI."

"That's because he just got out of court. He's a lawyer."

She examined Jack through a narrow glare and rendered her verdict. "All right." The door closed, the chain rattled, and then Flo was standing in the open doorway. Her face seemed to light up as Cy greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.

The men entered, Flo shut the door, and Cy poured on a few kind words about how she hadn't changed a bit. She seemed appreciative, even if he was a liar. Flo then led them to an old card table in the kitchenette, which was really just an extension of the living room, which accommodated a TV, a sofa, and a place to eat. On the other side of the table was the kitchen area, still technically part of the same room. Dinner was cooking on the stove, and the entire apartment smelled of boiled potatoes, despite the noisy fan in the window that drew fresh air from the outdoors.

Flo brought a large pitcher of cold lemonade and three tall glasses with ice. She poured for them. Cy assured Jack that it would be the best he'd ever tasted.

"You always did like my lemonade," said Flo.

"A woman of many talents," he said.

Jack tried his and seconded the compliment. "Cy tells me you two have known each other a long time."

"'Bout a hundred years," she said.

"You used to sing in the old jazz clubs, is that right?"

Cy cleared his throat, as if the subject was more complicated than the thumbnail he'd given Jack in the car ride over. "Flo and I were… used to…"

"Oh, for Pete's sake, Cyrus. Tell him the honest truth. You ruined my career."

"What?" he said.

She looked at Jack, her eyebrow arching. "We started datin', and honey, I didn't feel like singin' no blues."

They laughed, and Jack joined them, though he wasn't sure that he was supposed to be part of the joke. Cy drank more lemonade, then turned serious.

"Is the boy here?" he asked.

"In the bedroom," said Flo.

"He tell you anything more?"

"Won't talk. But I know he seen something. Maybe you can get it out of him." She rose and called to the next room. "Tyrone!"

It took a minute, but finally the door opened. A thirteen-year-old boy shuffled toward the table, dressed in an oversized Miami Hurricanes football jersey.

Flo returned to her seat and sat the boy down next to her. "This here is Theo Knight's uncle," she told him. "And his friend. Say hello."

"Hey" he said weakly.

"Tyrone's my grandson," she told Jack.

Jack said, "How's it goin', Tyrone?"

"Nice suit. You a cop?"

"Nope."

"Lawyer?"

Jack sensed that it was better to leave that question unanswered. "Theo's my best friend. We met at FSP."

"You were in prison? What'd you do, shave strokes off your golf handicap?"

Flo swatted him on the arm. "Show some respect."

Cy gave Jack a little kick under the table, as if to say, "Let me try."

"You ever heard of the Grove Lords, Tyrone?"

"Course I heard of' em. Ain't what they used to be, but they're still players."

"Both my nephews were Grove Lords back in the eighties.That's how Theo ended up on death row. Jack's the lawyer who got him off."

"Really?" he said, giving Jack another look. "Cool."

"No, it ain't cool," the old man said. "Theo wasted his best years in prison. His brother ended up dead. Their leader spent most of his life in jail and got shot and killed last week. And somebody just tried to kill Theo."